


Love

by Neroro



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Character Study, Junkenstein, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neroro/pseuds/Neroro
Summary: It can't be love, because the witch told him so.





	1. Chapter 1

It isn't love, but loyalty that brings the monster home after its rampage, covered in blood of the villagers that did him wrong. It doesn't know the reason for its wrath, forced into its mind by its creator, a tool of vengeance. It doesn't care for his loving hands as he washes away the evidence of its murderous sins, doesn't appreciate him pressing a needle to its skin to keep it from falling apart, keep it alive. 

It isn't love, but dependency that makes it sit up with him at night, carries him to bed when he tires himself out with forbidden research. It doesn't know the reason, it never will. It needs him to live, but he could be anyone, it wouldn't care as long as they had his knowledge and skill to keep its dead heart beating. It doesn't care for his well-being, only that he is alive and capable. It isn't him it needs, merely a scientist. 

It isn't love, but lust when it presses him to the bed, thrusting into him because he begs it to, pleads for it despite the pain. It doesn't understand the tears trailing down his cheeks as he takes hold of its hands, shaking fingers seeking comfort in unnatural flesh, doesn't understand his loneliness when his voice breaks around its forgotten name. It hurts, but it's to be preferred over his own hand and a cold bed, the pain of calling out to an empty room, of knowing that the one person he really needs will never hear him again. It hurts, because he knows that he will never feel loved. 

It can't be love, because the witch told him so. But what else can it be when the monster cradles him close to its massive body, gentle, selfless, secure. She told him it would never be, can't ever be, no matter how much it might feel like it is. He knows it to be true, yet refuses to believe her as he caresses its waxy face, made by his own hands. He refuses to believe that the love in its deep, black eyes are simply a reflection of his own, that the content rumbling from within its chest isn't affection. He's a scientist, yet he can't accept that there isn't a part of its old self left, that it is merely a living object of destruction, that its long dead body can't hold traces of what could be called a soul. The witch said it wouldn't bring him back, that he would regret his decision, but how could he when the press of a cold snout to the back of his neck brings tears to his eyes and makes his chest feel warm and tight, just for a fraction of a second until his mind catches up. A brief moment is all it takes to make it all worth it. 

It needs to be love, because he can't handle if it isn't. 

It isn't love, but it's all he has.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning strikes.

It's a selfish love. He should let it run free, live and die as it pleases yet here he is, the world dark around him and rain whipping against his face as he tracks it down. He needs to bring it home, keep it safe, for without it he is nothing. Light flashes across the sky, a deafening crash of thunder following obediently. The monster is on the ground, scorched, unmoving.

It's a selfish love, always was and always will be. A young man infatuated with experience and a life lived rough, a lonely soul smitten by a helpful act. He approaches, fearful and unbelieving, yet with hope as strong as ever, hands trembling as he reaches for the heaving mass on the ground. It cries out, not in pain or surprise but confusion, displaying a self awareness he has never known it to have as it stares at the unnatural color of its hands, tugs at the pipe protruding from its stomach, breath panicked. It raises its head to look at him and his blood runs cold, too hot, too much not enough.

It's a selfish love that makes his feet like lead and a laugh pierce the air, shocked and in unwanted disbelief, legs shaking as he drops to his knees beside it, _him_ , his only love. Apologies spill from his lips, tears from his eyes. He has done a horrible thing, mocking the ways of the world for something as petty as his own emotions, his revenge, his need for self-torment, his love. Yet he can't help the happiness spreading through his body at the proof that he was right, that his quest isn't hopeless, that the witch was wrong. _He_ is still in there and the doctor is overwhelmed with relief, yet can't ever be truly happy, for just as the monster, the man has never truly loved him, never felt the same feelings toward him as he has towards the man. He is sorry for his crime, not for doing wrong by the villagers but for doing wrong by his love, for selfishly keeping him tied to the ground when he never asked for such a thing. He is a lovestruck fool and he tells him so with a voice made pathetically small by tears, with hands clinging to dead, cold skin.

"Do I make you happy?"

He startles at the deep voice he hasn't heard in years, trembles, nods his head until it feels like it's going to fall off, voice and heart breaking equally as he stands at the confession stand.

"I love you."

He will never be loved.

"I always loved you."

A large thumb wipes at the tears staining his cheeks and he sobs, lets the wail he's been supressing for years rip from his throat. Always hiding, always trying to forget, trying to remember. He's selfish, so selfish, not giving up, not letting go, for taking a love that was never his.

"I know."

Heavy arms embrace him slowly, almost cautiously, and at that moment it feels like everything he has ever wanted, to simply give himself up and be held.

"You should have told me sooner."

It's a selfless love, given to him by a dead man who never had any love to give. Forgiveness drapes over him heavier than the rain hitting his back, regrets, relief, guilt making him unable to speak, to act, to reach up and pull off his mask, press his lips to _his_ face as he has dreamed of since he stood up for him the first time all those years ago. He loses sense of time as he leans weakly into the cold body before him, muttering apologies and words of gratitude, losing himself in the embrace as he can't handle knowing that it will have to end. The man says nothing.

He doesn't dare look, stubbornly, selfishly holding on as its breathing grows slower and the hand on his back limp. He should let it go, for his own sake, not wrap his hand around waxy fingers and guide it home. But he is a selfish man, too caught up on in the past and the present to think about the future.


End file.
